


Touch and Go

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to speak at a symposium, renowned monstrumologist Dorian Pavus makes a discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch and Go

When Dorian Pavus, renowned monstrumologist, had agree to travel across the Waking Sea to speak at a symposium on the supposed existence of the Fallow Mire wendigo, he had done so under duress. Not a fan of sea travel, he’d been avoiding accepting the invitation for as long as possible when Lady Cassandra Pentaghast had written him herself, threatening him with bodily harm “the likes of which you cannot even begin to comprehend, Dorian, I swear” if he did not attend.

And so he’d written back, agreeing to speak—though he doubted they’d like what he had to say; the wendigo was clearly imaginary, and everyone else was delusional (what do you expect in a place with “mire” in the name, Maker preserve him).

Now he clutches the railing on the starboard side of the vessel, trying not to vomit his meager breakfast—it was all his stomach could handle—into the sea.

“You’ll get your sea legs eventually,” the captain, a woman by the name of Isabela, tells him as she walks by. She looks him up and down out of the corner of her eye. “Eventually.”

He frowns at her, and holds on, tries not to look down into the waves that lap against the hull.

They get progressively worse as the day wears on, and Dorian tries keeping to his cabin when he can, but it’s small and stuffy and he feels claustrophobic. He makes his way back up on deck after lunch, handkerchief in hand in case he does have to…lose his lunch, and is shocked by the color of the sky. It’s purple, almost green at the edges, the clouds boiling above as the sea boils below. He watches the crew members run about, organized chaos that the captain leads as they try to—what was it?—batten down the hatches? He hears some shout about rocks, about shallow water, and vaguely remembers a strip of land he’d seen out of the porthole in his cabin.

He’s making his way up to Isabela where she stands on the quarterdeck when the vessel shudders beneath him. The last thing Dorian hears is the creak of timber and the snap of rope, a shouted word he doesn’t quite catch, and then he’s struck with something hard and his head is spinning and the water that envelopes him is cold.

Dorian is a decent swimmer. He learned to do so on his family’s estate in a pond at the back of the house. That water had been cool, though, not cold, and Dorian had always been able to see the bottom. When he was older, he’d been able to touch it, the sandy bottom stirring up between his toes.

He can’t see the bottom here, can’t even imagine how far down the water goes, and it is cold as those ices his mother enjoyed as she watched him learn to swim. Cold enough to take his breath away, to rob him of his sight as he tries to think through the pain in his head and the panic welling in his chest.

Lady Cassandra is a horrible person, and he should never have accepted. He should have insisted that the symposium be held in Minrathus, where people were civilized, and not in Denerim, no matter who resided there. He should have refused, full stop. Pretended he had died.

Now he’s going to actually die. He is going to drown in the middle of the fucking Waking Sea, salt water in his nose and mouth and lun—

There is a mouth on his own, wide and shocking in its very existence. He hardly realizes what’s happening until he feels something pushing against his lips and realizes, amazed, that it’s air. That someone has jumped in after him, has fisted their hands in the front of his robes. Has fastened their mouths together and is sharing their air, their blessed air!

Dorian opens his mouth and reaches for his savior, hands finding large shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his palms. He finds large shoulders and a thick neck, cool bare skin. He opens his mouth and lets himself share air with this benefactor, a kiss more intimate than the ones he’s shared with so many others before.

He thanks the Maker, and everything goes black.

When he comes to, there’s air, blessed air, and Dorian gasps, breathing deep. He’s still freezing, soaked to the bone, but he’s on land again, and really, that’s all that matters. With a groan, he pushes himself up, and looks around.

He’s on a beach, wet sand clinging to his robes. The water laps at his feet, and there’s a rock outcropping with some brush and driftwood just to the right of him. The storm has moved on, the dark clouds rapidly moving into the distance, revealing the sun hanging over the horizon. The light is strange, thick and golden, and Dorian wonders if he really is awake, or if this is some strange dream.

Or death, he thinks. Perhaps this is what death looks like.

“You all right?”

He doesn’t scream. The sound that escapes his throat is absolutely not a scream.

“Over here,” the voice says as Dorian looks about. Eventually his eyes land on the outcropping and the hand waving there. What he’d thought was driftwood is actually…actually…

“Don’t scream again, please. The saltwater’s hard enough on the throat. Screaming’s not going to do anybody any good here.”

Horns. It’s horns. Attached to a head. Attached to—sweet Maker.

In his line of work, of course he’s heard stories of men falling into the ocean only to be rescued by beings that are half-man, half-fish. He’d always written them off as ridiculous, panicked minds trying to make sense of whatever miracle had brought them safely to shore.

And yet here he is, faced with the same miracle. And here is his savior.

The being—the man—in front of him is large, muscled. His skin is gray, a sheen on it like the ocean when it rains. His hands are easily the size of dinner plates, and his horns are impressive. Academically, Dorian finds himself wondering if that’s they’re purpose, or if they’re there to intimidate, to threaten. Are they weapons, or are they ornamental? Surely, they must be weapons if—He’s missing an eye besides, and his shoulders are scarred. They must be weapons—

He shakes himself, and looks to the tail instead. It’s gray as well, the color of swords and cutlasses, but when the man—being—moves, there’s a sheen of pink to the scales. Dorian finds, of all things, his palms itch to reach out and touch.

“Are you the one who, uh.” He swallows hard, gesturing at himself.

“Introduced you to the concept of buddy breathing?” the man asks. “Yeah, that was me. You okay?”

Dorian knows that he’s staring, but he can’t seem to help it. The end of his tail is flipping gently in the waves. “I—I am, yes. I think. Thank you?”

The man shrugs. “You’re welcome. It’s not often you’re minding your own business and someone almost lands on top of you.”

“I beg your pardon, it wasn’t as though I endeavored to—”

“I’m glad I could help.”

Frowning, Dorian draws his legs up, rests his forearms on his knees, his chin on his forearms. He shivers in the remaining breeze. “And I appreciate it,” he says. “But what of the ship? The other crew members? Did anyone else—Or was I the only one to lose my footing?”

“They should be fine. Blown of course a bit, but no one else fell, as far as I saw.” He squints at Dorian, and Dorian has the sudden feeling he’s being appraised. “They’ll turn around when they can, come back to find you. Don’t be too hard on yourself, though; sometimes even seasoned sailors, eh-heh, miss the boat.”

Dorian groans. “Is it that obvious?”

Another shrug, and Dorian finds his eyes drawn to the shift of muscle beneath skin. “To someone who lives in the sea? Uh, yeah. Probably also to anyone on the coast. Or on a boat. Or inland.” He laughs. “It’s no big deal. We all have our niche.”

“And yours is to kiss random strangers when they almost land on top of you, I suppose.”

“Hey, I told you,” he says, looking out over the water. “It was buddy breathing. Now if you’d like me to show you the difference—” the gaze slants back toward Dorian “—I’m sure I wouldn’t mind a demonstration.”

Head tilted on his arms, Dorian gapes at him. He can feel the tips of his ears flushing. He should be appalled at himself, and yet—“We haven’t even been properly introduced!”

“I’m the Iron Bull,” he says, one big hand raised in a wave.

“The Iron Bull?”

“I like the article.”

Dorian’s dreaming, he must be. That’s the only explanation. Or he’s slipped into some alternate reality where this is happening. He’s seen a myriad of strange and unbelievable things in his life, but this takes the cake.

“But you can call me Bull.”

“Dorian,” he says. “Dorian Pavus.”

“The monstrumologist!” The Bull laughs, head thrown back. “I’ll be damned.”

Surreptitiously, Dorian pinches himself. “What? You’ve—you’ve heard of me?”

The Bull nods, shifting on the rocks to turn more fully toward him. “I can read,” he says. “And we get all sorts of stuff washed up all over when ships wreck. You study things that may or may not exist.”

Dorian nods. “Essentially.”

The Bull’s mouth pulls into a smirk. “Would you like to study me?”

Dorian’s felt that mouth on his lips, can’t help but wonder what it would feel like outside of the water. “I—what?!”

The Bull laughs again, full-bodied and rich. “Oh, Dorian, we’re going to have fun waiting for that ship to return.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on my tumblr](http://annundriel.tumblr.com/post/118655362887/kiss-meme-adoribull-18) for the prompt "underwater kiss."
> 
> Many thanks and much love to [dinojay](http://dinojay.tumblr.com) for [this depiction of merBull](http://dinojay.tumblr.com/post/118669738165/you-should-go-read-this-fic-by-annundriel-because) and [alphabetiful](http://alphabetiful.tumblr.com) for [the rescue](http://alphabetiful.tumblr.com/post/118873547327/warm-up-sketches-from-last-night-trying-to-work-on).


End file.
